The Warrior Heir (17 page)

The reception area was crowded with people coming in to exercise after work. Hastings keyed in a code on a keypad on the counter. They walked past a large gymnasium, into a back hallway lined with racquetball courts, aerobics studios, and workout rooms. Hastings produced a key and opened one of the doors.

It looked like a racquetball court with a highly polished wood floor, but it had one mirrored wall. Jack dropped his gym bag by the door.

"What's this room used for?" he asked.

Hastings smiled. "Fencing. Appropriate for us, wouldn't you say?"

Jack shrugged. "I wouldn't know. I'm not at all sure what kind of material we're going to be covering." He knew he sounded irritable, and he didn't care. All of this intrigue was beginning to get on his nerves.

"You warriors are impulsive people," Hastings replied with just a bit of an edge to his voice. "You're going to have to learn patience, among other things. We're going to take care of your control problem today." He shed the windbreaker to reveal a T-shirt underneath. Hastings had appeared tall and angular when Jack had seen him at school. He was surprised to find that the assistant principal was layered in muscle, despite his lean build.

"I understand you've had no schooling whatsoever." It was not really a question

"Right. No schooling." Jack removed his sweatshirt, revealing the vest underneath. Hastings gestured impatiently, and Jack shed the vest, also, leaving his T-shirt.

The wizard walked around him, studying him from all angles. "How long since you've taken the Weirsbane?"

"What?"

"The preparation Dr. Longbranch gave you."

"Oh. A week, maybe."

Hastings grunted. "Have you used your powers in the past?"

"Well…"Jack hesitated. "Whenever it's happened, it's been … accidental."

Hastings nodded. "When you were angry? Out of control?"

Jack thought of the episode in the graveyard. It was hard to say how much magic had been involved there. "Well, angry or scared, I guess," he admitted.

Hastings drew a small object from his shorts pocket and held it up for Jack to see. It appeared to be a top, finely enameled and decorated with an intricate pattern of symbols and pictographs. Hastings set it on the bench before the mirror. "Set that spinning," he ordered, standing aside, hands on hips. Apparently Jack was to do it from where he stood.

"What's that got to do with—"

Hastings's breath hissed out in frustration. "Look, our time together is limited, and you are getting a rather late start as it is. Just do it."

Jack regarded the top doubtfully.
"Right,"
he mumbled. He tried to focus all of his attention on the target, tensing up and gritting his teeth with no particular strategy. "Move!" he whispered to himself. The top sat stubbornly motionless. Jack shrugged. "It's not working."

"Try to relax. Don't hold your breath. Picture the top spinning."

Jack tried again, acutely aware of his teacher's scrutiny. The top didn't move.

"Let's try this." Hastings unzipped his bag and pulled from it two lightweight foils, corked at the ends. He handed one to Jack. "Just do your best to keep my point away from you." With no further instruction, he poked Jack, hard, beneath the rib cage.

Jack brought his point up and tried to parry the blows that now came thick and fast. Again and again, Hastings hit home—shoulder, chest, back, stomach—effortlessly. Despite his best efforts, Jack could not seem to protect himself or land a blow. Gradually, Hastings drove him backward until he was defending himself from a corner.

Jack grew more and more annoyed. This man was supposed to be a teacher, wasn't he? He knew he needed training, so why humiliate him? He took another hard poke in his rib cage, and something in Jack uncoiled itself. It was as if hot energy had been collecting unnoticed in his arms and fingertips. His sword arm came up, and flames erupted from the end of his blade. Hastings's foil clattered to the floor.

Instantly Hastings's other hand came up, flinging an arc of what looked like powdered gold. It hung, glittering, in the air. "Now look!" Hastings commanded. He caught Jack's elbow and turned him until he was facing the mirror.

Jack was at the center of a radiant star described in glitter, his body surrounded by a shimmering outline.

"Now shut it down," Hastings said.

Keeping his attention focused on the image in the mirror, Jack began to draw inward, as if he were inhaling a dream. Slowly the star dissolved before his eyes until only traces of glitter caught the light, and then went out.

"That's the process we want." The wizard looked amused. "Now you have to learn to access the energy without the provocation. And control it when you are provoked. Use your sword arm, if it's helpful. You must perceive the flow of energy in order to manage it. It's like steam building in a boiler. You need to release it before it explodes." He nodded again at the top on the bench. "Try again. Now you know what it feels like. Locate the energy. It won't take much. Then direct it through your fingertips."

Jack closed his eyes and sketched a small picture of the top in the vacancy before his eyes. He painted in the colors, the mysterious lettering on the side. Then he set it spinning in his mind, faster and faster, until the colors bled together into an exotic blur. He felt a tingle in his hands, like blood returning, energy bleeding from his fingers. When he opened his eyes, the top was spinning prettily about a foot above the bench.

"Now stop it," his teacher directed.

Without closing his eyes this time, Jack drew back, allowing the top to settle gently onto the scarred wooden surface of the bench. It spun silently for a moment and then coasted to a stop. Hastings flung up his fistful of gold again. There was a soft brilliance about Jack this time, less distinctive than before. Jack consciously re-sheathed his weapons, and the image dissipated as before.

There followed several similar exercises, where Jack raised magical energy, then dispersed it. Finally, they spent some time working with the foil, beginning with classic fencing moves, then adding the element of magic. Jack learned to hold on to the power, then channel it into the blade and send flames spinning from its tip at will. This raised a question: he remembered the way he had felt in the graveyard, the marriage of flesh and metal, recalled his successful attack on the wizard, and wondered how much he had contributed to it.

"I have a sword. The Shadowslayer, it's called. What I'm wondering is, how much magic is in me, and how much is in the sword?"

At first it seemed there would be no answer to his question. Hastings frowned and passed the two foils to Jack without comment, indicating that he should return them to the bag. He also handed over the top and a soft suede pouch.

"The top's a wizard's toy," Hastings said. "You can use it to practice control at home. There's more of the shimmer powder in the bag." Jack put both items into his gym bag. "Self-awareness is the first step. Practice is the key. Soon you will manage your power intuitively, and that more than anything will keep you safe. Then we'll move on to other things."

"Aunt Linda told me not to use my powers, that it would send up some kind of a signal."

"She means you should not use them for entertainment. Of course you must practice, or you'll never get any better. Magic isn't a tool to be used recklessly or thoughtlessly. It must be harnessed to an intellect strong enough to control it. Talk to Snowbeard. If your house is not already warded, he can make an arrangement." Hastings studied him, hands on hips. "Do you know who you're hiding from, Jack?"

Embarrassed, Jack shook his head.

Hastings frowned and rubbed his chin with his thumb. "We'll continue to meet to work on your skills, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I'll be working with some of the other soccer players as well, so it will be perceived as nothing unusual." The wizard was issuing orders again, almost unconsciously.

Hastings turned to the door, but stopped, his tall frame filling the doorway. "The Shadowslayer is one of the Seven Great Blades, forged by the sorcerer Althis Mac at Raven's Ghyll more than five centuries ago. The other six have been lost. The pommel is a piece of the Ravenshead. There is tremendous power in it, and it was made for your hand. Others can wield it, but none so capably as the heir, properly trained." He paused. "There is  considerable power in you, too, Jack, despite your unusual history. With the weapon you have, and the proper training, you could be … impressive.

"Let's go."

The lesson was over.

Chapter Eight

The Apprentice

Jack grimly advanced on Hastings, body angled to present a smaller target, elbow up and blade extended to prevent escape to the right, his small shield protecting his chest. The wizard kept him honest, made him work for every forward step. Steel came together, shrieking and sparking, and when Jack thought he had his teacher trapped in the corner, Hastings spun away from the wall, blade hissing toward Jack at waist level. Jack had to leap backward to avoid it, and Hastings was on the outside again, with the room at his back, and Jack against the wall.

"This … room's … too … small!" Jack gasped, forcing him away once again.

"You'd never get near me in a bigger room," the wizard replied, teeth flashing in a smile, although they had been at it for more than an hour. "You can't always pick
where
you fight, or
who
you fight… or even …
how
you fight. But do the picking … whenever you can." Still teaching, but his breathing was noticeable now, and perhaps he was slower in blocking blows, parrying the flames. So maybe he
was
winded, just a little. "We're going to have to end this … you know. Your mother … is expecting you."

"Do you yield?" Jack's shoulder was numb from the hundred collisions it had already absorbed. He was feeling the weights on his wrists and ankles, designed to build muscle and ready him for a heavier blade. Even the foil was growing heavy, or maybe it was his arm, almost too heavy now to lift.

"Your mother … can wait a little longer."

Slowly, Jack drove Hastings across the room until he was once again in a corner. Jack thrust forward with his sword hand, and Hastings moved to parry it. At that moment, Jack straightened his shield arm, which exposed his chest but freed his nondominant hand. Flames spiraled out from his fingertips, and Hastings's foil hit the floor. Hastings raised his hands in surrender. "I yield, Warrior," he said, smiling.

Jack let his point drift to the floor. "Thank God," he said. He snatched up a towel and swabbed off his face. His hair was plastered to his head and his shirt was soaked. The floor was slick with sweat. The room stank of it.

"Next time we'll work some more with the axe," the wizard promised. "I think you're beginning to master two-handed play."

"We were playing, were we?” Jack grinned. "That's the first
plaisance
I've won." He felt the need to point it out, in case Hastings hadn't noticed.

"You've come a long way, Jack." Hastings was always sparing with compliments, and followed with a demand. "How are you coming with your reading?"

"I've been trying."

"I didn't ask you to
try."

Jack scowled. "It's like Shakespearean English without the poetry," he complained. The work with the wizard was mostly physical, but Hastings had recently given him a slim volume called
Rules of Engagement.
It was the bible, where Weir tournament warfare was concerned, addressing elements of garb, weaponry, and battle etiquette. The weaponry was explicitly limited to medieval hand weapons, such as swords, slings, maces, and so on.

Hastings didn't respond, so Jack persisted. "I don't understand why they haven't updated them."

"The rules are intended for tournaments," Hastings said patiently, wiping off the foils, returning them to their case. "They are not meant to be modern. Weapons are not allowed to overshadow the skills of the warriors."

"But aren't some weapons better than others? What about Shadowslayer? What's fair about that?"

Hastings shrugged. "That's a special piece. But still within the rules."

"What about the rest of it? You can't deny that's out of date." He pulled the book out of his gym bag and thumbed through it. "Listen to this: 'Enchanters were created for the entertainment of wizards.' And, here: 'A wizard guarantor may choose to keep and protect an enchanter in exchange for service rendered.'That can't be right. And the rules governing the relationships among the guilds are unfair. They all favor wizards." He'd heard of things like that, obsolete city ordinances that were still on the books. Rules that prohibited interracial marriages or riding horses into church, for instance.

"You don't have to like the rules," Hastings pointed out. "They were written by wizards, so of course they are biased. And I didn't ask you to read the whole thing. Only the tournament regulations."

"Those are bad enough. What's all this about calling up dead warriors for practice bouts? Why is it necessary to have a rule that only live warriors can be used in battle?"

"We'll talk about that when the time comes." By now everything was packed up. "We'd better get going.You're late already."

Jack could tell Hastings was losing patience, but somehow he couldn't stop himself. "I don't understand why I have to learn about tournaments, anyway. Do you think a wizard is going to challenge me to some kind of duel? I'm more likely to be taken by surprise. Maybe you should be teaching me weaponless warfare, like tai chi."

"Maybe I should. Perhaps I shall. But I didn't come here to debate with you. Let's go." Hastings laid a hot hand on his shoulder, pushing him out the door.

It was always this way. The wizard never answered his questions. Hastings was relentless in coaching him about every aspect of his new trade: weapons, equipment, conditioning, and strength training, but shared nothing about his own background.

Jack had tried to ask questions early on about Hastings's family, about where he'd received his training. He'd been met with a stone wall. The focus was always on Jack. He sometimes had the feeling that Hastings was working him like a problem, gradually peeling layers away until he was entirely revealed. Or maybe whoever he used to be was being stripped away. He just wasn't sure who had taken his place.